


What Lies Within Us

by essential_dreaming (madmarian)



Category: War Horse (2011)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotionally Repressed, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Death (Implied), Masturbation, Men in uniform, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slash, World War I, men out of uniform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madmarian/pseuds/essential_dreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major Stewart and Captain Nicholls discover something unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction in over 15 years, and my first-ever slashfic, so I admit to feeling a bit like I'm trying to re-learn a two-wheeler while also balancing a bowl of fruit on my head. Thus, feedback (including, but not limited to, Britpicking and/or WWI-era terminology help) is more than welcome! 
> 
> Please note that this fic is entirely canon-compliant and is not a fix-it fic. (Sorry!) 
> 
> Many thanks to my Eternal Beta Reader Alynfinity, who also helped find some of the poetry quoted at the start of each chapter.

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

In the stillness of the darkened tent, Jamie had finally fallen still and his breathing had evened out, sprawled on his front with an arm thrown over Jim’s chest. Jim lay still a half-hour more, waiting, listening, feeling the warmth of the man pressed against his side, feeling Jamie’s breath cool against his ear, glad for the sleep, knowing the strength—all that they possessed—they would all need in only a few short hours. The Major rarely slept the night before battle, but somehow, tonight, he had let himself succumb, and Jim was determined not to wake him.  
And yet.  


Gently, slowly, Jim eased Jamie’s arm off of his chest and sat up, turning the lamp up just slightly so that he could see the dim outline of Jamie’s profile as he slept. His face, kept strong and straight and perfectly-ordered in the daytime, had relaxed into a soft portrait of utter innocence, Jim thought, and reflected on how young the man would have looked without the mustache. So young. They were all so damned young, Jim knew, himself included. The bright, young hope for Britain’s future. Such narrow shoulders on which the fate of the known world rested. Jim watched the faint rise and fall of those shoulders with each breath.  


He watched the Major sleeping for a long while.  


Presently, he reached under the cot and took out his sketch-book, and proceeded to quickly, with light strokes that made little noise, capture the lines of his lover’s face—just the lights and shadows from brow to chin—so that he might always remember the moment, to memorize this gentle, unguarded side of his of the man he harbored so many feelings for.  


At length, he was satisfied. He didn’t quite know where to put the drawing, however—he couldn’t just leave it here. If by some chance he were killed or wounded in action, his family would be sent his belongings, and they need not know. They need never know. It would only upset them, even to suspect. But he didn’t want this portrait to go unseen—he didn’t want to destroy it as he had the others. Not this one.  


He folded the sheet of paper tenderly, and crossed the room to where the Major—ever the conscientious officer—had already laid out his shirt and underthings for the morning. Since their tunics had more easily-accessible breast pockets, the men rarely used the shirt-pockets. Surely Jamie would notice the paper as he dressed; he would unfold it and see it and then decide whether to keep it. It was as close as Jim dared come to a love note.  


Having stashed the picture, he crossed the room and blew out the lamp. He lay back down beside the sleeping man, easing slowly into the narrow space left on the cot, and Jamie turned onto his side without waking. Jim settled into the curve of Jamie’s body, feeling the press of the older man’s forehead against his shoulder, the warm breath soft on his back, and he smiled. A moment of quiet yet, before the dawn. A moment of gratitude for this, only this, this beautiful and brief stop-gap of joy and belonging in the midst of the greatest darkness the world had ever known.  


Jim knew he was a lucky, lucky man.

* * *

  


__  
Six Weeks Prior  


It began slowly.  


As the commanders of the column, the two men naturally spent a great deal of time together. They had eased relatively quickly into a comfortable balance in the management and training of the men. They spent a great deal of time side-by-side in the officers’ study, sipping tea and poring over maps and discussing stratagem. Nicholls’ thoughtful and accommodating manner complemented Stewart’s order and efficiency, and it wasn’t long until the two men were fast friends—with a natural bent toward friendly competition, of course.  


Over time, however, the sharing of tea became a quieter affair, more conducive to murmured conversations when the two found themselves alone, of their concerns about the nature of the war, of their pasts and home towns, of their hopes for the future. Oftentimes they would sit in companionable silence, each man lost to his own thoughts, yet somehow keenly aware of the other’s presence in both mind and body.  


Jim came to learn that Stewart’s limitless optimism and military fervor hid within it an intensity and depth that many of the other officers had not seen and could not guess. They looked only as far as his braggadocio and saw an officer whose job was to “talk them up” as well as command them, but Jim realized that Major Stewart—Jamie—was much more, that his belief in the might of right was sincere and rooted bone-deep. Jamie believed they would win the war with God on their side, and that Fritz could be damned in the process. It seemed such a simplistic view, Jim had thought at first, but in time he came to quite admire the man’s conviction.  


Jim wished he shared that conviction in such abundance.  


Jim wished also for other things, as he came to know this man in truer terms, and one evening in his quarters he indulged—oh, how he indulged—in imagining how it would be to unbutton Jamie’s tunic, to pull it free of his neatly-pressed officer’s shirt—how it would be to undo those buttons, then, and to watch his friend’s soul unbutton as well—how it would be to touch him, to see those well-comported features melt into open desire—how it would be to kiss that lush bottom lip—to run hands over his smooth, white skin, peel away the layers of English military composure and expose the passion that surely lay within—  


He didn’t hear the knock until too late, wasn’t able to close his flies quickly enough to hide what he had been doing before Jamie had entered the room, saying, “I say, Jim, have you got a mo—“  


They stared at one another for a very long minute.  


At length, Jamie said, “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, how very…”  


“No, no, it’s…” Jim had no words. He had quickly closed his trousers and was attempting to close his face, too, which he was sure had betrayed far too much upon seeing Jamie enter.  


“I’ll um. Well, I’ll go, then.” Jim stared. Jamie was beet-red all the way to his collar, but he hadn’t left, he hadn’t stopped staring. Did that mean…  
“You.” Jim ran a hand over his mouth and chin. “You don’t have to go.”  


“I…” He closed his mouth, that tight frown that Jim knew well, that he recognized as a gesture of Major Stewart’s pride: his famously stiff upper lip.  
“I mean, you came to discuss something with me,” Jim went on, wishing he could just do something as deucedly simple as catch his breath, “didn’t you? Please…” He stood up, tucking his shirt-tails, gestured at last to the small chair at his desk. “Please sit down. Sorry for my…”  


“No, it’s quite—“  


“No, really, I just—“  


“Entirely my fault—“  


“No, no, I should—“  


And after three seconds of more staring, they both melted into helpless laughter.  


Jamie finally sat in the chair, and Jim sank onto his berth, face in his hands. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Jamie. Really.”  


“No, no, truly, old man, entirely my fault for barging in. Spent too much time around the horses, I’m afraid, lost all my manners.”  


“Not at all, my friend.”  


And there was a smile between them, like a telegraph wire strung between them, messages from eyes to eyes and mouth to mouth, messages that were not put to any paper nor crossing any lips. There was a lingering flush on Jamie’s face, and Jim felt it as well on his own, and his heart would simply not stay where it belonged. But, oh…more he could not ask. More than this he could not have.  


And then Jamie looked down, flushing deeper still, clearing his throat and looking about him. His gaze chanced upon some drawings of the horses, the uniforms, of several of the officers—including his own face staring from under the brim of his hat—and he smiled. “You drew these.”  


“Yes.”  


“They’re quite wonderful. Never had the knack, myself.”  


“Thanks. I suppose it’s my way of commemorating all this, recording it.”  


“Going to send them home, are you?”  


Jim thought. “Hadn’t planned to. They’re more for myself than anyone else.”  


“And no one at home will want to know about your…experiences, then? No faithful heart waiting by the hearth for you to come marching home?”  


It was a question they had danced about several times in the past, but it had never before been asked.  


“No. No one like that.”  


Jamie gave a nod. “Nor for me.” He pressed his lips together. “Better that way, I think. Cleaner. Might lose my nerve in battle if I thought someone might break their heart over me.” He stared at the wall behind Jim’s writing-desk, saying nothing.  


“You’d never lose your nerve, Jamie. Not you.”  


The tight lips curled into a smile. “Nor you, I think.”  


Jim smiled broadly, as he always did when Jamie tossed him a compliment—something he did only when they were alone. “You think too well of me, I’m sure.”  


Jamie looked at him now, serious. “That, my dear chap, is quite impossible.”  


There was another long telegraph-wire of unsaid things, and Jim thought perhaps he might just…and then Jamie blinked. “Ah, yes. I came in to tell you that I got a call from HQ. The game’s afoot in France, apparently, and we might be called up in the next few weeks. I was thinking since Achilles got lamed, you’d best go into town on Saturday and see about a new mount.”  


“Yes, that’s…I should do. Thanks.”  


“Though don’t set your hopes too high. You’ll not find the anything to equal my Topthorn.” He grinned at Jim, and Jim’s heart gave a stutter.  
It always did, with that grin. 

  


* * *

The next time that Jamie knocked on Jim’s door, Jim opened it and smiled. “You could have just come in this time. It’s safe, I can promise.”  


And they both grinned, and Jamie stepped into the room, and said, “The men are having a bit of R &R tonight. I thought to see you among them.”  


“Oh, I…” He tried to say, “I felt tired,” or “I need my rest,” but in the end, he could only think to say, “Sorry.”  


Jamie waved him off, reaching into one of his tunic pockets. “Think nothing of it, old man. You and I, we are…a breed apart, in some ways. Not only…due to our rank, I think, but our natures. I mean to say, we both can appreciate the quiet, at times.” Jim gestured for him to sit, and he did, holding out something in offering. “As we’re both off-duty, perhaps a little command refreshment?” It was an elegant silver flask.  


Jim huffed. “Never knew you for a drinker!”  


“Generally, no, but I’d like to celebrate your victory today.”  


“Thought you were doubting my Joey’s stamina.”  


“Pshaw,” the Major said, unscrewing the cap on the flask, “your young colt is quite a fine specimen. I’m sure in time he’ll make half the stallion Topthorn is.”  


“Half!” exclaimed Jim, his eyes wide, as he took the flask and tipped a brief swig. “Scotch,” he said, “and a rather good one.”  


“I should say,” Jamie replied, with that tight, one-sided grin that was so dangerous to Jim’s pulmonary system. He took the flask and took his own short slug, then grimaced and gave a short cough. Jim bit back a smile. He had been right about the Major’s lack of drinking experience, but he had no intention of saying so.  


“So your Scotch is as superior as your horse, eh?” Jim teased, easing flask back out of Jamie’s hand.  


The older man smiled openly now. “Tut, tut, Captain…you needn’t be sensitive. You’ve only just got Joey, after all. Everyone needs a bit of time, a bit of training up.”  


“Yes,” Jim said, watching his friend pensively. “We all do need time. To…grow. To become who we shall be.”  


Jamie only sat, staring off into some corner of the room, uncharacteristically silent. Jim decided that a few chances might safely be taken—this man did consider him a friend, after all—so he sat down on his berth (blankets safely straight and tucked, nothing suggestive in that) and said, “Come now, you’re too far away for real talk, or sharing of drink. Join me.” And he slapped the empty end of the bed with a firm swat, exuding as much manly camaraderie as possible.  


Jamie gave a sidelong glance, then moved to sit on the opposite half of the berth, unbuttoning his tunic as he approached and saying, “As they haven’t seen fit to equip our quarters for proper entertaining, I believe you’re right.” Jim held out the flask to him and he took it, once more downing a quick swig, though Jim thought this swallow was a bit smaller than the last.  


They talked a bit more of Joey and his potential for greatness, of several of the men who were in need of further honing at bayonets, of the talks of underground resistance they had heard of growing from somewhere inside France, and at length Jim said, “I’m glad you weren’t afraid to come back.”  


Jamie toyed with the flask but did not drink. He had only had the two first gulps and nothing more. Jim had held back as well, keeping his mind clear, hoping to read any small signs or signals that Jamie might see fit to let loose. “It’s nothing, really, Jim. We all have our…needs. For privacy, I mean. A…man’s needs.”  


They were both leaned back against the wall. Jim stared at his knees. “Of course.”  


“As a matter of fact,” Jamie said, inhaling deeply, “sometimes those needs are not…that is to say, there are times when…I should say…situations like these often lead to…”  


Jim kept staring at his knees, not daring to move a single hair.  


“What I mean is,” Jamie said, sitting up straight now, “these are circumstances in which…the company of men is…” He trailed off, frowning at the floor now, and Jim sat up, too.  


“Do you mean the company of men is not…sufficient?”  


“No!” Jamie glanced at him, and seemed to recover a bit of his usual poise. “Not what I meant to say at all. Rather…that…in constant company for so long, perhaps men may, at times…that is to say, perhaps the patterns of behavior between men might…alter…in the absence of…others…and…” He was gulping air now, and Jim thought he could see a faint sheen of sweet on his brow. Jim’s heart squeezed. Surely this didn’t mean what he hoped it might mean. Or surely it did.  


“Yes,” he said, aiming to relieve the Major’s anxiety at once. “Yes…I know what you mean now. Of course.” His voice was soft now, low and heavy with meaning. Just a few steps more and there could be no going back. If he had misread the situation…  


Jamie rubbed a hand across his brow—was his hand trembling just a bit?—and tugged at the top button of his shirt. He seemed to have lost the capacity to speak further, and Jim eased a hand gently to his friend’s shoulder.  


“It’s a bit close in here,” he supplied. “You should probably take off your tunic.” He helpfully eased the flask from the Major’s other hand and set it on his night-table.  


“Yes,” Jamie said, and at once tugged his jacket from his shoulders. “Yes, you’re right.”  


When the tunic lay across the bed-post and Jamie had undone his top shirt-button, Jim leaned slightly closer and said, “You’ve become quite dear to me in these past weeks, Jamie. Quite…dear, indeed. I…admire you very much.” His voice was a murmur now. He laid his hand on the bed quite close to the Major’s leg but did not touch. There was still enough room, he thought, enough space for interpretation that even now he could explain his way out of any sudden anger or repulsion on Jamie’s part.  


But Jamie, looking down at Jim’s hand so near him, only said, “And I you.”  


As one, they leaned in to one another, shoulder to shoulder then chest to chest and suddenly arms were reaching for one another with haste and fumbling, and there was a strange, shivering embrace, and for a long moment neither moved nor breathed, though each could feel the other’s heart thudding powerfully into the space occupied by their pressed bodies.  


With a spasm, Jamie jerked upward, as if to fly out of Jim’s arms, and his fists balled the tails of Jim’s shirt as he hissed, “I must go.”  


But Jim didn’t let him rise. Firmly, gently, he tightened his hold, and said, “It’s all right. It’s all right,” in a low, gentle tone. He stroked his thumb gently down the nape of his commander’s neck, trying to think of words that would keep him here, keep them together in this embrace for as long as possible. “It’s all right,” he said again, “we just…have needs. That’s all. We have needs and we can…help each other.” His mouth was so dry the last words were lost in a whisper.  


The major’s hands finally unclenched and he let out a long, tremulous breath, and with hands shaking, he pulled the remainder of Jim’s shirt-tails free of his trousers and placed one hand on the skin of Jim’s side.  


Jim thought his heart was going to pound quite literally out of his chest. He closed his eyes and laid his cheek, the corner of his mouth, against Jamie’s neck, feeling the madly racing pulse and breathing in the man’s scent as deeply as he could. God. He, too, fumbled to pull the Major’s shirt-tails up and out of his waistband, fumbled at the flies with clumsy fingers, as Jamie gasped and said, “Bolt the door.”  


The doors had no bolts, of course, but Jim (trying not to wobble on his shaky legs) jammed the chair underneath the doorknob and then turned down the lamp for good measure. Darkness, he thought, might make them both feel a bit less skittish.  


His heart stuttered again when he turned to see the man on his bed, the man whose face looked plaintive and desperate in a way that Jim had never seen before, his brilliant ice-blue eyes darkened with desire, his usually tight lips slack with want. Jim had never seen anything more desirable in his life.  


They instinctively looked downward as Jim sat down again, avoiding each others’ eyes, and Jim brought Jamie close, gradually pulling him in, until he held him in his arms again, though this time, the Major seemed unsure of what to do, and waited with his arms to his sides until Jim said, “Please. Let me.”  


Jamie opened his own trousers now, with a deep sigh, as Jim pressed his forehead against his shoulder, trying desperately to assure and reassure him. Jim wanted equally desperately to open the buttons of the man’s damnable shirt, to strip him utterly bare and lay perfect waste to his long, lithe body, but he dared not do more in his moment than the Major was capable of, and when the trousers had been pulled low, he reached gentle hand to caress the length of one thigh, then the other, up and up until his knuckles brushed the hard mound pressing against Jamie’s underthings.  


The Major gasped but made no move to stop Jim’s hand, and so Jim considered that he truly had blessing now to finish the thing. Slowly, reverently, he cupped the hard package, pressing his lips to Jamie’s collarbone as the older man stifled his gasps as best he could. Through the now-damp cotton, Jim ran his thumb the length of Jamie’s member, glorying in its length, its hardness, and he pressed his forefinger round the other side and felt his own cock throb in sympathy as he measured the girth of his commander’s erection.  


“Oh,” he whispered. “Lord. Jamie.”  


The cock between his thumb and forefinger bucked urgently, and he worked the Major’s underthings down and without ado, grasped it gently and stroked once, twice, three times.  


Jamie’s hands were now on his head and shoulder, grasping painfully, but all he felt was more inflamed, and greater bliss. Weeks of need were undoing all his composure and the Major hadn’t even truly touched him yet. He was behaving like a teenager, but he could not—would not—stop himself even if he climaxed right into his own trousers. He ran his tongue softly along the Major’s collarbone, earning another gasp, another wild buck of both hips and cock, and he imagined licking along Jamie’s cock instead, and how good that would feel, and how there would be time for it, so much time…  


Jim was pulled back into himself when Jamie’s hand closed over his, stopping him in mid-stroke, and he drew up to look at the man’s face. “What’s wrong?”  


Jamie was gasping quietly for air again, but he managed to say, “You as well. Can we? You? And I? Both…”  


Jim understood, and nodded, smiling gently, and guided the Major’s hand down to his own flies, and soon he felt the grasp of long, strong fingers squeezing his balls—God, how had Jamie known to do that?—and stroking the length of his slender cock, red and weeping from pent-up need.  


With his left hand, he unbuttoned his own shirt so that it fell open and he could be exposed as much as possible to this amazing man, this glorious commander with his poise, his unfailing confidence, his certainty. God, yes, this was what Jim loved in him—for surely in the secret places of his own mind he could admit it for what it was, not just a meeting of physical needs but much, much more—that certainty in all his decisions, a surety of will that Jim had never known, save for a few instinctive moments when he knew that what he did was absolutely right. Buying Joey had been one; joining the cavalry had been another. It had been only luck (or destiny) that had brought him here to the arms of this man.  


He could not help the kisses on the Major’s neck—belatedly, he realized he had probably left marks—and the Major could not seem to help staring at his body as their hands pumped long and fast on each others’ respective shafts, breaths coming in synchronized gasps now, moans swallowed into throats too full with desire and emotion, surely too full to hold it all—and Jim swore softly just as he came, threading great white ribbons across Jamie’s arm and legs and shirt-front, and before Jim could apologize for that, Jamie gave a low cry and added his own spatters to the shirt, and a little on Jim’s chest.  


They panted in silence for several moments, gently releasing their grasps on now-softening cocks, and the moment was plainly so intimate, so bare, that Jim was sure the Major would shutter up like a house before a storm, but he only said, “Have you a flannel?”  


And Jim giggled and said, “Apologies about your shirt. Seems it got the worst of both of us.”  


But Jamie assured him no one would notice—he had his tunic to wear back to his own quarters, after all—and that the shirt would be washed up and ready for pressing by morning.  


Jim noticed Jamie was avoiding his face.  


And because he knew Jamie would prefer it, he began discussing tomorrow’s weather and the state of the horses’ shoes, while the Major dressed and ran fingers through his hair and smoothed his trouser-fronts. He took up the abused shirt—carefully folded—and Jim pried the chair from under the doorknob and in a trice the Major had taken his leave for the night, and suddenly Jim was aware how very small and cold his room really was. He dressed quickly for bed that night without making any sketches at all.  


Jamie had left his flask behind. Jim tucked it into the pocket of his own tunic, hanging in the wardrobe in the corner, and wondered when they might have need of it again.


	2. Chapter 2

“your slightest look easily will unclose me  
though i have closed myself as fingers,  
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose” – e.e. cummings

The next day passed with such unrelenting normality that Jim couldn’t decide whether he felt disappointed or relieved. There was no overt tension between the two men in the courses of their duties, but he did notice that they tended not to look directly into one another’s faces. 

It was strange, but the other officers didn’t seem to notice.

In the evening, Jim sketched until his eyelids began to close of their own accord, but there was no knock on his door that night.

The next several days passed in a similar fashion, and it wasn’t until Friday afternoon that Jamie caught him at Joey’s stall, murmuring praise for the young bay and promising him a lovely long ride. 

“Care to make good on that, old man?”

Jim smiled without turning around. “Topthorn needing a bit of a stretch, is he?”

“He is feeling a bit rakish today, to be sure. Thought a nice, long run might be just the ticket. And your Joey could certainly benefit from building up his wind a bit, I should think.”

Jim chanced a glance sideways at the Major, and saw with a thrill that tight, satisfied smile that he adored so. “What say you, Joey? Care for a bit of a run?”

They were fortunate that there was a wide valley nearby, cut by a stream and inhabited by shaggy cows, through which they had been given leave to ride when the horses needed exercising. The two men skirted the valley, riding abreast, each holding back his mount with some effort, as Joey and Topthorn were already straining to win what must surely be a race. But the Captain and the Major wanted the run to last a bit, so they kept the reins tight and the pace at a leisurely gallop for a long ways around the gentle curve of the valley as it met the base of a hill. Then, reaching a fence with a stile and a gate, they looked at one another, turned back, and with one mind spurred their mounts to full speed.

The two horses ran full-tilt along the stream, catching the attention of the cows grazing on the other side, and by the time they had lapped their starting position, Joey had gained a head’s length over Topthorn. Jim and Jamie pulled the horses to a gallop, then a jog, then slowed to a stop and dismounted, taking the reins to walk the heat off their panting steeds.

The day was warm and Jamie soon tucked his hat under his free hand and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his face. The two men let the horses drink from the stream once they had cooled, and found themselves walking back toward the gate at the end of the valley. Without speaking, they opened the gate and walked through, leaving Joey and Topthorn to stare nonplussed from the other side, though Topthorn ultimately nipped at Joey’s withers and they engaged in a bit of a buck-and-tussle as their masters took leave across a short glen beyond the fence.

The two men walked in companionable silence for a good long while, skirting the base of the long hill until they reached a small glade where the stream came down off the mountain, nestled among a stand of trees, and they sat on rocks, passing a canteen and enjoying the shade and the cool breath emanating from the stream beside them. 

Jim passed Jamie’s canteen back to him, making sure his knuckles brushed, lingered, over the other man’s fingers, and he realized neither of them had spoken since they had set out from the camp. While he himself might be prone to bouts of “brooding,” as his family called it, Jamie certainly wasn’t silent under normal circumstances, and though he felt no hostility from his companion at the moment, Jim needed to make sure that all was well between them. 

But before he could formulate a sentence, Jamie said, “Jim.”

His gut twisted in a moment of agonizing suspense. “Jamie, I—“

“No, let me say it. You may be able to reach the brass ring before me but I’ll be damned if I don’t come to this first. Jim, you are…that is to say, we, you and I, have been…” He pressed his lips together and looked upstream for a moment. Jim stared at the moss beneath his feet, waiting for the ax to fall. “Jim, I have never been a great one for friendships. Not those close-knit things, at any rate, that so many men have the luck to experience, that brotherly compatriot that every boy dreams of having. Seems every time I thought I might…but water under the bridge, my dear fellow. What I’m muddling up to is…your friendship has been—is the most important of my life.”

Jim’s heart was a motionless lump in his throat. 

“And in that spirit, I’d like to…I wish we could make a sort of pact, or…vow. Something,” Jamie rose restlessly, pressing his fist into his open palm and pacing across the short space between two trees. “…something to ensure that…that we’ll go on being…such friends after this blasted war’s done.” He let out a long breath and stopped, putting his hands behind his back in a gesture Jim knew well. His friend had made the first charge and was now waiting for the counter-strike.

Jim’s heart had finally begun beating normally again, and he smiled, stood to face his friend. “Of course. Of course, Jamie. How could we do otherwise?”

Again there was a long moment of silent telegraphy, but Jamie ended it by suddenly embracing Jim and pushing him backward against the trunk of the nearest tree. Jim gaped for a moment, then grasped the Major in a wrestler’s grip about his waist and pressed hard against him. Their breathing had turned suddenly ragged, and Jamie rasped, “Always.”

“Yes,” Jim panted into his ear. “Yes, always.”

Jim wanted so much to kiss him now, but Jamie’s face was down, nearly on his shoulder, and all he could reach was a temple, part of an ear, and he took the opportunity, this time taking care to be gentle, and whispering “always” between each press of his lips as Jamie rocked in an awkward, desperate rhythm against his hips. 

“We’re of a piece, you and I,” Jamie rumbled, gasping for air, “cut from the same cloth.” Jim gently put hands on his hips and eased him back. Jamie looked up, wide-eyed with fear for a moment, but Jim only smiled and whispered breathlessly, “We mustn’t make a mess inside our uniforms.”

Jamie laughed then, an equally breathless thing, and with shaking hands they untucked their throbbing erections and in a few moments, had painted the tree-trunk and some lichen nearby with the result of their tandem climaxes.

A spring day in England had never seemed quite so fine as the one that afternoon, Jim mused as they returned to Joey and Topthorn and set out for the camp once more.

* * *

Not until the Sunday evening of the following week were they again able to be alone, this time in Jamie’s quarters—Charlie was under the weather and thus did not constitute the inadvertent chaperone that he so often served as. Jim had stopped by with a sketch of Topthorn to show Jamie, and received more than he had as yet dared to hope.

He was pleasantly surprised by the fact that Jamie was wearing only his underclothes when he answered—though only after exercising no judicious caution, of course, by saying, “Jim?” and “Alone, are you?” before consenting to open the door. 

“Dressing for bed already, old man?” Jim said. He couldn’t seem to stop grinning. 

Jamie frowned and finished buttoning his tunic, which hung on the wardrobe mirror. “Just finished pressing, if you must know. Surely you don’t mind.” He half-turned, giving Jim a sidelong look.

Jim stepped closer, still grinning. “I do mind, now that you mention it. I mind terribly.”

Jamie turned toward him, frowning.

“You’re still wearing far too many clothes.” Jim blushed as he said it, wished he had thought to stop himself, remembering too late that this was probably far too direct for his dear Major’s sensibilities.

Jamie huffed, bloomed scarlet himself, and turned back to his tunic for a moment, straightening its various seams and brushing its already-flawless shoulders.

Jim said, “I’ve brought you something.”

Jamie turned again, and Jim held out the drawing. Jamie took it and looked for quite a long moment, saying, “Extraordinary.” Then, “Thank you.”

Jim smiled, stepping closer. “He’s a charming subject.” A little closer. “I do wish I had something rather more substantial to offer.” Jamie pff’d at this. “Quite truthfully. I’d like to give you so much more.” And though he hadn’t meant _this_ or _here_ or _now,_ the double meaning lay between them, vast and immobile, until the Major stepped suddenly forward and pressed a kiss to Jim’s mouth.

It wasn’t the soft, perfect, sensuous moment that Jim had so frequently imagined. It was stiff, a bit bristly, dry, and completely artless. But it was also achingly sincere, like every sinew and fiber of this glorious man’s being, and it was Jamie.

Jim gripped his shoulders and pressed into the kiss, softly molding his mouth to the Major’s and drinking in the moment, wishing it could burn on and on. 

But Jamie did pull back directly, stepped away to jam a chair until the doorknob, and lowered the lamp—Jim felt a flutter in his stomach—then sat on the edge of the bed, body straight and face still and serious, almost grave. Jim eased onto the bed next to him, angling toward his friend—his lover, surely now to be so called in the secret spaces they shared, though he wouldn’t venture to say it until he had some sign from Jamie that more truths could be verbalized between them. 

Jamie turned his face toward Jim and began undoing the buttons on his own undershirt. He slipped it off, and Jim reached out to gently brush across the smooth, white shoulder. Then he stood to remove his own shirt and trousers and remove his own undershirt as well, while Jamie watched, the flush of his face clear even in the dim lamplight.

Jim kneeled on the bed and Jamie moved to mirror him, and they faced one another, feasting on the sight of bare skin and sending tentative fingers to explore the new terrains. Jamie gave a long sigh as Jim slid cool hands up his chest. Jim reflected for not the first time that he was probably forging a completely new path in his commander’s collective life experience—the man had said as much in the little glade beyond the hill, hadn’t he? Jim had had a lover before, though nothing that meant so much to him as this, and had even kissed a girl once, as a teen, before he had realized the truth about himself. 

But Jamie gave every sign of being one who had never had any sort of lover at all, and Jim was determined to make this experience unremittingly lovely for him. “You are so strong. Look at you. You look wonderful. You feel wonderful,” he breathed, pressing kisses to the Major’s chest, shoulders, collarbone. 

Jamie’s breath was quavering softly now, and he ran eager, unsteady hands across Jim’s back. “Jim,” was all he could manage, in a hoarse whisper. 

Jim was pressing kisses up his neck, now, and Jamie responded by kissing Jim’s nearest shoulder, his lack of experience and bristly mustache making it feel like rough pecks more than the soft licks and nips Jim was applying to the smooth, white skin. But the feel of Jamie’s ardor, how his direct and blunt lovemaking was in perfect synchrony with his daily demeanor, only served to fuel Jim’s desire further, and he pulled Jamie to him, sealing their bodies together with a tight embrace. 

The first nudge of their two cotton-clad erections brought a sharp intake of breath from the Major and a low groan from the Captain, and Jim dared—oh, did he dare?—to press his hand to Jamie’s backside and press their hips even closer. Jamie gave another small gasp, then balled his hands into the fabric covering Jim’s backside, pulling down as he pressed his groin harder against Jim’s. 

Jim eased Jamie back, their cheeks pressed together as they both looked down the length of their bodies to their bulging underthings, and Jim gently reached down to undo not his own remaining buttons, but Jamie’s, and his drawers fell to his knees at last. Jamie’s hands were trembling as he did the same for Jim, and they took a moment slip their underthings off their legs and toss them into the corner. 

Then Jim, without preamble or hesitation, pulled Jamie close again, hands on neck and backside, and their cocks crashed together, pressed hard, and Jamie had to quickly swallow a moan. Jim couldn’t seem to form words or sounds as he ground his hips against the Major’s, lost in the feeling of flesh against flesh, and reminding himself to breathe, just breathe. 

After another moment of helpless, arrhythmic thrusting, Jamie said, “My cot…” and Jim realized the berth was making squeaking sounds. They stilled and after a moment of hesitation, lay down on top of the blanket, Jamie underneath Jim, who looked his lover in the face for the first time since they had kissed. He caressed the angular cheek with one hand, lost in the molten-glass gleam of Jamie’s eyes, side-lit by lamplight and glowing with a particular heat. He dare not form the words—even now there was some chance that Jamie would bolt, as they had gone far beyond the “meeting of mutual needs”—but he couldn’t help pressing an easy kiss to the proud mouth, gone soft with desire, and though the Major returned the kiss, he also swallowed gently and said, “I don’t…I’m afraid I haven’t much experience in these matters…”

Jim smiled gently. “You’re doing beautifully. You’re remarkable. Quite…” and he kissed lip, cheek, jaw, neck, “remarkable.”

More kisses to Jamie’s chest and throat, then Jim reached down to grasp both their cocks, making Jamie gasp once more, and Jim found that he had some difficulty reaching around both of them—the Major was quite well-endowed, and extremely aroused, after all—and so Jamie added his long, strong hand and Jim had to bite back a cry as they stroked together, taking care not to thrust lest the cot’s springs give them away. Their pre-come mingled and lubricated the contact point of each man’s frenulum, and they both found it difficult to keep even their panting silent enough for secrecy.

Jim had been kissing—likely biting—Jamie’s shoulder, finding silence easier if his mouth were pressed to something, but he chanced a look at his Major and saw clenched teeth, neck straining, eyes closed tight against the repressed pleasure. Jamie’s free hand was clenched tight onto Jim’s hip, and he knew he’d have a bruise come morning, but this knowledge only sent more electric pleasure pulsing through his groin and out into his entire being. “Look at me, Jamie. Lord, look at me.”

He thought at first the man would refuse, but finally he opened eyes, mouth, gasping desperately as Jim felt his climax beginning to build. Lord God, this man, this man…Jim pressed his mouth hard against Jamie’s and felt Jamie give a body-long buck against their joined hands, and he came, moaning throatily into Jim’s mouth and striping both their chests with ejaculate. Jim followed a few strokes later, fighting the urge to bite Jamie’s lip as the pleasure took him. 

They lay together, gasping and sticky, for only a few moments, then Jim was up and retrieving a fresh flannel from the Major’s wash stand, knowing Jamie didn’t like to stay in a state of mess for long, knowing he’d be up and dressing before Jim’s heart had even slowed from the climax. 

But he stayed on the bed, patiently allowing Jim to clean him off, offering to return the favor but finding that Jim had already taken care of it, and Jim chanced a moment to lie next to him, laying a hand gently on the center of his chest. “Alright, old man?”

Jamie was gazing at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought. “I never expected.” He frowned slightly, still toward the ceiling. “I never expected that I should be here, in this way, with someone such as yourself.”

Jim swallowed, unsure of what this might signify. “Such as…myself?”

“I mean to say,” said Jamie, his hand now coming to rest over Jim’s, but not moving, “that this sort of…that this—“ and here he squeezed Jim’s hand slightly—“is something I never thought I’d have the opportunity to experience. Surely you…must have felt the same.”

Jim let out the breath he’d been holding. “Well, yes. I did, once.” He laid his head down on the pillow next to Jamie’s. “We’re very lucky, and I know it. If you hadn’t caught me at my…private moment, perhaps none of this would have happened.”

Jamie gave that one-sided grin that Jim loved so. “Is that to say if I had better manners or you had better self-control?”

“Self-control is not among my choices, when you’re about, I’m afraid.”

“You mean you were…”

“Yes.”

Jamie flushed to his collarbones then, and Jim laughed. “We’re naked as newborns, and this is what makes you blush?” He sat up and leaped onto his Major, ignoring the creaking springs for a moment, and they clasped hands in a sort of mock wrestling match. “That I was tossing off while thinking of doing just this very thing to you?”

And as Jamie teased back, Jim flushed to the roots of his hair, too, but only for the utter joy of the moment. It was, he realized, the most perfect moment of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both Jim and Jamie come to realizations. (Just a reminder: Not a fix-it fic. I'm sorry.)

"Between us, it was a question of an essential love." - Jean-Paul Sartre & Simone de Bouvier

Major Stewart brought word that the column was being deployed to France at last. A frisson of electric chatter charged the base as they packed for travel, and though Jim’s mind was focused on its immediate tasks, he couldn’t help thinking also of the sleeping arrangements in the field. It was a corporal whose name he’d momentarily forgotten that brought round the berthing assignments, and as expected, he and Jamie would be tenting together during deployment. Jim fought the flutter of excitement within as he tightened Joey’s girth-strap. How much easier their trysts could be, possibly, if they were already berthing side-by-side. He patted the horse absently, and Joey turned to nudge his arm, his dark, intelligent eyes questioning.

“Yes, m’boy, we’re on the move at last,” he said with some satisfaction. But then his thoughts moved beyond the long march and the field accommodations to the end result: Joey was going into battle. Their first time to engage the enemy. The excited flutters in his stomach were replaced by a cold trickle of dread, and here it was, the reason why attachments of a particular sort were a poor idea for military men—even beyond the obvious reasons. Attachment—regard—love—could cloud the judgment, cause fear and hesitancy. He set his jaw as he buckled on his saddlebags. He refused to fear for the best horse (officer) on the line. Joey was strong. Nothing would happen to Joey (to Jamie). Nothing could. 

The trip took several weeks, moving across the sea and then the land, traveling the routes that had been deemed safe by scouting parties sent ahead. It would be April before they reached their destination, hoping to engage the Huns point-blank within days of setting up camp. The cavalry could not stop an army but it could cripple the phalanx. The purpose of the charge was to kill so many men that further progress into a particular theater was impossible or impractical. This, they could do. This, they would do. They could not turn the tide of the war on horses’ backs alone, but they could herd them, press them back, hurt them. 

Jamie believed that such tactics, when well-played, could be the tipping point, the moment of reversal after which all the cards eventually fell. Jim hoped, rather than believed, he was right. Jim also could not rid himself of the dread of what was coming, despite his determination to believe in the strength of his beloved. He found himself having dreams of the battle—they’d shown up without sabres, their horses were ill or lamed and they had to charge the Germans on foot—but he did not let Jamie see any of it on his face. Surely it could bring no good to voice his fears aloud. 

At night, during their travels, the two men were often too tired to do aught but murmur quick wishes for mutual rest and fall hard into sleep, excepting a few nights when Jamie’s restless energy could not disperse until he’d brought Jim off—usually while pressing a muscular knee into his crotch, which Jamie had noted made Jim’s control crumble quickly to dust—and then come himself, hard and silent and grasping some part of Jim hard enough to leave bruises. It was hard not to want to stay in his cot alongside the man afterward, feeling his heart slow, hearing him breathe into sleep. But always Jim pulled himself away, covered Jamie with blankets, and lay in his own berth, thinking himself into fitful rest. 

One night, Jamie reading and Jim sketching, Jim put down his pad and said, “What do you suppose you’ll do once this war’s done?”

Jamie let the book rest on his knees, and thought. “Hadn’t given it much thought. Might ask to be redeployed to India, or possibly Burma. Always wanted to see an elephant.”

“You’ll stay in the service, then?”

“Of course I shall. What else is there for me? This is…where I belong.” 

Jim said nothing for a time, then, “It is. You’re quite right.”

Jamie frowned. “And what about you, then? Going to ply your trade as a street artist?”

And though he meant it lightly, the joke fell hard on Jim’s ears, and he winced. “Actually, I read for a barrister at school. Thought I might go to London and enter my trade.”

“Sounds frightfully dull,” Jamie murmured. 

“Probably. But I prefer it to…well, this. I admire your skill and nerve, you know I do, and I see the necessity of it, but…I think I’m not quite cut out for it, really, this…warfare.”

“Yet I can imagine nothing else, for my part. And I had thought…”

Jim remembered their vow in the little wood. “You’re a braver man than I, Jamie. You always have been.”

Jamie made an indistinct noise in his throat. “Don’t know about that, old man. Don’t know about that at all.”

They sat in silence for a time, then Jim said, “I had wondered if you might possibly come to London with me. We could share a flat.”

Jamie looked at him for a long moment. “I’m not really cut out for that lifestyle either, old boy, and you know it. Besides,” and here he raised his book once more, “we’d not be allowed the bachelor life for long, once we’d come back from service. Always expectations. Obligations.”

Jim winced again, but this time it was his heart and not his face that felt it. “I know it.” He put pencil to paper again, and said, “I’m sure you’re right.”

They were silent after that, but Jamie did not turn any page of his book for a good long while, and Jim’s picture eventually ended up a wad of paper on the floor, just before they turned down the lamps for the night. 

* * *

At last, they settled into their camp in the countryside near Quievrechain—a beautiful spot, Jim had to admit to himself, then fight the urge to imagine a sunlit holiday, running golden and bare among the barley, entwined with his lover in some war-free utopia—and when Sergeant Major Singh brought word of the German 11th ensconced three miles hence, they knew that the time had come. The excitement that had buoyed them upon leaving England’s shores had given way to quiet tension, and though the men were calm, the murmured conversations about camp tended to avoid the impending conflict. 

That night, in the tent, the two officers undressed in silence, the day of strategy-making having wound to a close at last. All that remained was to wait, to wait the long hours until just before dawn, when they would rise and mount and set off for the attack. The camp felt poised, gathered, ready. Jim could feel the wakefulness of the men even though he could not hear or see evidence of it. It was always the same the night before battle, Jamie had assured him. 

Jim lay down on his cot, too lost in thought to take up his customary sketch-book, and Jamie sat, watching him. He turned at last to his silent commander and said, “Come on, then.”

Jamie approached in silence, kneeled slowly onto the cot next to Jim, who said, “No underthings tonight.” And though it was a great risk here, in a tent with no knob under which to push a chair, they removed their clothing until they could regard one another altogether naked in the low light, eyes gleaming with more than desire, more than adoration. Much more than usual was going unsaid tonight.

Jamie took the lead in the kiss this time, and Jim found that with gentle encouragement, the man’s firm mouth could open just slightly, that he could press his kisses more softly than before, that a great well of feeling was somehow opening up in his well-ordered Major that Jim could sense through the insistent press and suck of the full, proud mouth on his own. 

Jim pulled Jamie close and, in one motion, put legs around him and rolled him onto the cot, so that Jamie lay beneath him, their mouths still joined. The cot groaned, but neither was of a mind to care at that moment. 

They broke apart at last, and though both could feel the other’s erection, there was no urgency about their touches. They had all the night long, as neither planned to (nor would likely be able to) sleep the night before battle, and hands caressed lamplit skin with slow, aching tenderness that they had never shared with quite such deliberation before. Every inch of skin was explored, by hand or mouth, and no words were whispered or spoken, no gasps or pants rent the silence. Only touches and gazes and firm yet soft kisses to fill the spaces in that still and quiet place.

At length, Jim found himself kissing down the Major’s front, with long-fingered hands tangled in his hair, and he did not stop as he approached the man’s cock, which had grazed the length of his own body as he’d kissed his way down. Jamie’s hands flexed in his hair convulsively as he reached it, gleaming from pre-come and now beginning to give small kicks against Jim’s jaw. He thought perhaps Jamie would stop him, that this would be a move too far for his cautious love, but as he pressed his lips to the frenulum, he heard only a quick hiss, and felt restless fingers carding even more deeply into his hair. 

He caressed the foreskin, the head, with gentle tongue, hearing Jamie’s breath grow ever more desperate, feeling Jamie’s hands pull unconsciously at his hair. The pain of it went straight to his groin, as always, and with one gentle motion he closed his mouth over Jamie’s cock, dropping his jaw a bit more than he expected to accommodate the Major’s girth. He couldn’t help the small groan that vibrated his jaw then—Lord, but this felt so very good—and Jamie echoed the moan with a surprised, throaty cry that must surely have reached beyond the heavy canvas walls. 

He immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, but did not indicate that Jim should stop or slow in his ministrations. Jim grasped the slender hips and plied all his effort to his rock-hard mouthful, trying with all his might not to moan again lest Jamie lose his last vestige of control and make him stop too soon. His head bobbed with increasing speed and intensity, working himself a little further down the cock with each thrust, and Jamie was now pressing both hands desperately to his mouth and breathing hard through his nose. 

At length, Jamie’s erection gave a subtle spasm, which Jim knew signified climax, and he pulled off with a soft “pop” and finished the job with his hand, Jamie’s come cascading over his belly in shining spatters as he pressed both hands to his entire face and jerked his hips roughly into Jim’s grasp. Jim watched this glorious scene, his own weeping erection twitching at the sight of Jamie’s neck and throat, muscles and tendons standing out in shadowed relief in the low light. Lord God, he’s so beautiful. 

Jim was reaching down to stroke himself to a quick finish, but Jamie squeezed his shoulder and whispered, “No. Here.” Jim crawled back up the long, pleasure-flushed body and allowed Jamie to finish him, squeezing his scrotum in one hand while pumping him relentlessly with the other, and gazing into his lover’s sea-blue eyes, he climaxed quickly, hard, silent, the only sound the quiet creak of the cot-springs as he thrust into Jamie’s fist. 

Afterward, cleaned and dry and calm, they lay pressed together, and Jamie said, “I don’t want to lose this, you know.” 

Jim knew he wasn’t referring to the darker possibilities of the coming battle. “I know.” He stroked the Major’s hand, which lay lax on his chest, with soft fingertips. “Come to London with me when the war’s done. Please.”

“If I leave service, I’ll have to marry.”

The bleakness of the truth stilled Jim’s fingers for a moment, but then he said, “Then we shall write.” He pressed a kiss to Jamie’s sweat-damp forehead. “You’ll write long, blustery, lovely letters to me and I’ll draw you pictures of everything I lay eyes on. Perhaps we can take holidays together, at the sea-shore, some place remote. We made a pact.”

“And I mean to keep it, as far as I can. Stay. We can wrangle the same battalion again, I’m sure of it. Especially if we do well tomorrow.”

Jim said nothing. His growing horror at the task he faced the next day was something he knew he could not discuss with Jamie. Staying in service would please his love, would please his family, but would not, he suspected, please his own soul and conscience. He kissed the Major again, and said, “I’ll think on it. No need to make a decision tonight.” 

“No,” Jamie murmured. “We’ll have time to ponder, old boy. Much time. I’ll not lose you, though. Promise you that. Mustn’t…”

At length, Jim felt Jamie relaxing into sleep, and he frowned at the sloping tent-roof above him. He refused to wish for what he could not have, but the thought hovered, pressed against the back of his thoughts like a hungry dog at heel. But he could wish, and wish, and wish until he were dead—he could pretend there were decisions not yet made—and it would change nothing. Apart from their obligations to family, to work, to king and country, any attempt to establish a life together, no matter how overtly conventional, might still be viewed with suspicion.

This moment, and this place, and this time, were likely all they would ever have together. 

He had vowed, though. He had promised to Jamie with all solemnity that they should ever be…friends? Lovers? He wasn’t entirely sure what Jamie had intended to say that day in the wood by the stream, or what he precisely was hoping for now. Even if Jim stayed in the army, it was foolish to think they would be able to continue this hidden life. Every moment spent together constituted a greater risk than the last. They were lucky to have had weeks; to imagine months or years of this clandestine arrangement was beyond all reasonable hope.

And still, Jim mused, he would change nothing, and he thanked the silence around him for what he had in hand, quite literally in his arms, at that moment. This moment, then, was worth everything, and Jim would not have given up these moments for the world entire. 

* * *

Jim buttoned his tunic in silence, looking out across the field of tents now coming to life with dressing soldiers and the clink of bridles and stirrups being carried to the paddock where the horses were kept. His thoughts were blank, empty, waiting to be filled with duty and courage and the adrenaline spike of the charge to come. 

His breast-pocket felt heavy, and he reached in to draw out the silver flask from his first night with Jamie. He gazed at the etched pattern on the silver for a very long time, unmoving, and then squeezed it, hard, and put it back into his breast pocket. No matter what else may come, he’d had those perfect hours, that unmitigated joy, free of doubt and guilt and shame and filled only with love. Those moments could never die. Those moments would live forever. 

Forever, Jamie. Forever you’re mine, and I’m yours, no matter what happens. Even when we part, we’ll have forever, my dear Jamie. 

* * *

_Too late, too late, he realizes that they are outgunned, that his men are falling onto the field like autumn leaves in a wind, too late he sees the folly of a cavalry charge against the brute force of mechanization, but he does not yield, not yet. He streaks past the line of guns, somehow managing to miss all the bullets, slashes as many Huns as he passes, puts his sabre through a gunman’s shoulder, and suddenly realizes he is surrounded. He pulls Topthorn up short, and the horse resists, rearing and giving an angry neigh as Germans approach from every direction._

_There are unmanned horses streaming in waves through the wood now._

_The German officer scolds him—has the unmitigated nerve to shout in his face—and he throws down his sabre, knowing that fight would be foolish now. Damn it all, if only he and Jim could co-ordinate the remaining men! If only— ___

_They pull him off Topthorn, and he says something about not harming the horses—why waste perfectly good animals, after all? He’s heard the Huns like to eat them after capture. They push him toward a vehicle where he will no doubt be taken to a prison camp. Perhaps he and Jim can silently signal one another, manufacture an escape. Ideas are already taking form; if he can somehow convey them to Jim. ___

_And then— ___

_Joey. Joey alone, recognizable by the red pennant tied to his bridle. ___

_Joey alone. ___

_Jamie feels nothing, nothing at all, as he sits inside the German lorry, waiting for prison, waiting for torture and death. He feels nothing. At least, he muses, he will not dread what is surely coming. ___

_Near nightfall, he and the other prisoners are barricaded into horses’ stalls in a barn somewhere between Quievrechain and wherever they are being taken to, no doubt to be interrogated, and he numbly removes his tunic as he sinks onto the remains of very stale straw over bare dirt. It is only now that he feels the paper in his shirt-pocket and is reminded of the drawing that he’d discovered, alone in the tent, just that morning when dawn had not yet broken and Jim was off seeing to the men. His own face, lost in sleep, in trust, in—love, he had realized quite suddenly, just that morning, and didn’t it seem a lifetime ago—drawn with such care and skill and passion. And such love. ___

_Jim had loved him, as surely as the sun would rise and set; Jim saw him as he truly was, all the bits that he had hidden his whole life long, all the things he’d locked away as unsavory and sworn never to show anyone. Jim had seen. Jim had seen and loved. It is plainer than anything to him now, looking at this drawing. Jim had seen him, and had wanted to show him what he saw. ___

_Jim’s last gift is all he has left. ___

_Jamie gazes at the drawing until darkness swallows him, and by morning he knows he must live. ___

_He must not allow himself to die, as he alone has learned the deeper truth of Captain James Nicholls, has seen the reach of his patience, compassion, depth of feeling, his capacity to draw out that which is buried within a man, to find what may have been otherwise lost. He alone knows his lost companion’s true heart, just as Jim alone knew his. And so long as he can carry this knowledge within him, the last bit of Captain Nicolls will not perish. ___

_He folds the drawing into a tiny square and buries it in the dirt of the stall, knowing it must at all costs never be found. But it is burned into his heart now, and will never be forgotten. ___

_Not as long as he lives, will any of it ever be lost. He must live. He must live. ___

_For Jim. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And of course there's no reason why it couldn't be the prelude to a lovely AU... :-) The details (such as the spelling of "Quievrechain") are thanks to the movie script and its eminent writers.


End file.
